


Always Sam

by lily rose (annabeth)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean jerks off in bed next to underage Sam, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Incest, M/M, Not underage but, Sam is of age, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, all porn in this fic happens after, handjobs, though it's not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: It's Sam's voice that changes everything, just like hisvoicechanges.written for a bonus fill of "incest" for Banned Together Bingo 2020.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 100
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Always Sam

**Author's Note:**

> New Supernatural fic! I believe this is the first one I've written since 2016. :) Also the plot was inspired by "velvety," even though I'm not writing officially for Yahtzee anymore.

It's Sam's voice that changes everything, just like his _voice_ changes. Before puberty, he had the high ringing tones of a choir boy, and like a choir boy, Dean couldn't bear to trespass, not even for the sake of his besetting sin. And during puberty, the cracks and creaks and hoarseness drove home for Dean that Sam was still too young—not _as_ young, but still too young—to consent to anything Dean's will had conjured up.

And in so many ways, Dean had to protect Sam. He felt it like a biological imperative so common to older brothers: _I must protect Sam_. He couldn't use Sam, not even in his mind when he got off late at night, hand moving furtively under the covers while Sam slept inches away and their father slept in the other bed.

Sam slept like his bed was a tomb and he was its only occupant. He never woke, no matter how many times Dean had brought himself off next to him.

But then Sam's voice matured. It stopped halting and squeaking and ending in empty air where words should be. It matured—and it _melted_. Like the most decadent chocolate, it became velvety smooth and every time he spoke the beauty of it burrowed deep into Dean—into his blood, his bone, his breath. His very soul was both soothed by it—and enflamed by it.

And so it was: Sam's voice changes everything.

Sam, in his melted honey voice, asking Dean for the sawed-off. Sam's voice, by his ear at night as they climb into the double bed in the last available room in the motel, saying goodnight.

Sam's voice, close enough to taste, a whisper of sound unfurling on the air, sinking into Dean's ear like a stone into an undisturbed pool, and with it, all the thoughts Dean has been trying to hide for years. Hide, and bury, and definitely not acknowledge, even though he knows how he feels for Sam began sometime long ago and has never wavered.

"Dean," Sam is saying, hand on his shoulder; Dean can feel the strength of that hand, the insistent weight of it as it curls into his bicep. He can see the curved length of Sam's eyelashes above the green eyes that are so like his own—yet have a hint of blue that Dean's cannot lay claim to, making them even more unique, and even more beautiful.

"Sammy, it's late," Dean says, trying to roll away from eyes that are more perceptive than they have any right to be. His throat clicks on dryness when he tries to swallow, to keep words from escaping that must, at all costs, remain silent and unspoken, forever.

"Look at me, Dean," says Sam, in that voice, the tone gone firm, but the quality, like the best whiskey, never changes. Dean quivers beneath the blankets; his hand is cupped over his cock, as if it willing it to remain still, even as the pressure and weight makes it want to come alive. "It's okay, Dean. I want it too." Sam's voice, like a brandy on a cold winter's night, the best aged liquor, going down smooth and heating the belly. Dean has had pig swill to drink in dive bars, and occasionally the best God has to offer in beer, but Sam's voice is the pinnacle of alcoholic beverages, the holy grail, the last drop before the heavenly chorus.

And beneath the blanket, under his hand, his cock will not be silenced. The drumbeat that takes up residence beneath delicate flesh is unable to be ignored; the drop of precome that soaks into his sweatpants is a damning conviction. Dean cannot get away from this. He cannot, no matter what he does or how he tries, pretend that he doesn't want—doesn't desire—Sammy. His baby brother, who is taller than he is now. Stronger, broader, with lips he longs to touch and shoulders he wants to throw his legs over. Eyes that see too much—ancient eyes, that have always seen more than Dean has ever wanted him to see.

And now this: Sam saying words that Dean has yearned for in every nighttime fantasy, and every goddamn nightmare where he took Sam by the arm—the choir boy, the child—and led him into a forest of regrets.

"Go to sleep, Sammy, unless I'm crowding you. There's a chair. I'll—"

"Dean," Sam says patiently, "that chair is too small to sleep in. And I'm not ready to sleep." His voice is like music, a sonata that can only be played at midnight, an orchestra that only plays for Dean, and then, as if sensing words will not sway him, Sam's body comes down heavily into the mattress, his hand stealing over Dean's hip—his teeth close over Dean's earlobe the same moment his hand falls on top of Dean's. And God help him, Dean is hard, Dean has _been_ hard, Dean is hopelessly overwhelmed by his own body's cravings—and by his own _brother_.

"Sam, please—" Dean can barely squeak the words past his tightened throat, like being choked by a demon's invisible grip on him as he's plastered to a wall—only the grip plastered to his cock is very visible, very warm, and absolutely intent. Sam is not going to give up. "This is my fault. My perversion. You must have sensed it, and—"

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, and like molasses, his voice coats Dean's eardrums slowly but thoroughly, and then, what Sam can't do with his voice, he does with his lips: he guides Dean's face back towards him, levering up on an elbow and bringing their faces so close together Dean can smell that roasted peanuts he'd been snacking on, even beneath the mint of his toothpaste. And Sam brings their mouths together; he swallows Dean's protest and takes advantage of his open mouth to slip inside.

He twines his tongue around Dean's, and Dean's heart is galloping, his palms are sweating, and his cock is throbbing fit to burst beneath their shared touch. Sam nudges Dean's hand out of the way; he takes Dean on a rollercoaster ride of a kiss that swings him up higher and higher until it plunges him down, gasping, almost terrified yet not— _exhilarated_.

And Sam's hands, larger than Dean's, with callused fingers and rougher knuckles, are still so deliciously welcome on Dean—and on his bare flesh when Sam pushes his hand into his pants and covers his cock. The streetlights outside the room glitter; above them, thunder rolls like heavy boulder across the sky. When lightning flashes, it happens inside Dean's body: a crash of thunder in his cock, then the spark of white behind his eyelids as Sam brings him over, forcing him into the storm, drowning him in the rain of kisses Sam presses to his face, drops to his lips.

The silk of the inside of his mouth; the satiny wet heat that Dean can't get enough of—kisses like nothing he's ever experienced, probably because he's never kissed his own brother before. And still it goes on and on, like a tornado ripping through his body, leaving him battered and broken and aching, even as the lightning turns him inside out.

"That's it, Dean, it's time to come. Now." His voice is smokier than it's ever been, and delicious, and Dean cannot control himself when confronted by Sam's voice like it is now: the embodiment of sex, slick and pure molten lava to Dean's ears; he bucks off the bed, he sprawls onto his back, he finds the nape of Sam's neck with his palm and cups his hand there. He draws Sam down to him again, and their lips meet like the way lightning is drawn from the sky to the ground, all electrical current and savage fury as they kiss so hard Dean forgets—forgets and tastes blood, his blood or Sam's, it doesn't _matter_ , because it's _their_ blood, the thing they share that no one can ever sever.

Sam's cock is huge, bigger than Dean imagined—he's never seen nor felt it when Sam was aroused—or expected, and he almost can't wrap his fingers around it. But Sam doesn't seem to care; he thrusts mindlessly into Dean's curled fist and cries out, voice cracking like the thunder still roaring above them, and in that moment Dean _comes_ —his body wracked with tremors, his fingers clawing at the bedspread, his mouth a softened "o" beneath Sam's kisses as Sam comes with him. They travel the same path to completion, follow the same arc of pleasure, and the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow is no fairy tale.

It's nothing less than an incontrovertible truth: that Sam wants this, wants _Dean_. That his hand on Dean's cock, sticky with Dean's come, or his tongue in his mouth, sticky with saliva from a mouth dry from orgasm, prove beyond anything that Sam is not being taken advantage of.

But it's Sam's _voice_ , when he lifts up and says, all sultry satisfaction,

"I always wanted this," that makes Dean's soul thrill to hear it. And in the afterimages of the lightning still flashing outside the motel and yet within his body—the aftershocks of the most violent, fulfilling, and complete orgasm Dean's ever had, and also the first fraternal one—Dean hears the chime of the strike, the sound of the thunder, and Sam.

Always Sam.

END


End file.
